Blackened Out's Christmas Vacation: Lost in New York

Rockefeller Center.

What The Folk Singer wants, The Folk Singer gets (within reason). As such, with a simple request to visit New York to see all of the Christmas lights, we were off to the Big Apple on the weekend after Thanksgiving, smack dab in the middle of perhaps the busiest time of the year. What follows is a brief synopsis of our 56 hour trip.

We touched down at Laguardia just before noon on Friday afternoon, dropped our bags off in the East Village, and walked over to Ippudo for lunch. Ramen is the name of the game at this sleek "Japanese brasserie," a dish which has not yet gained traction in our fare city. The standard lunch set starts with a simple salad of field greens tossed in soy dressing and a mini bowl of rice topped with morsels of fried chicken. I had the weekly special ramen of Szechuan style spicy pork in an intense broth spiced up with black sesame sauce, ground pork, and shrimp paste. I think that TFS found the winner though with the classic ramen, a less adulterated version with broth that was a drinkable elixir.

Fortified against the cold, we made our way to Rockefeller Center to witness a marriage proposal on the skating rink (complete with Bon Jovi anthem) and snapped the above picture of the iconic Christmas tree, a replica of which TFS felt compelled to recreate in our living room. Yada yada yada, The New York Public Library, something about Carrie Bradshaw, and then it was time for happy hour.

We navigated the subway system toward the Ace Hotel, where we ducked into the John Dory Oyster Bar. The hostess sat us at two stools along the window looking out onto Broadway and West 29th. At 4:45 only a handful of other tables were occupied, By 5:15 there was not an open seat in the dining room and people were lined up three deep at the bar. The happy hour special is a half dozen oysters and a glass of cava or pint of stout for $15. I ordered a full dozen of the salty, plump downright beautiful bivalves from Mermaid Cove, and TFS downed the cava. It's why our marriage works. We made a pass through the hotel lobby and The Breslin (April Bloomfield's other restaurant in the Ace) and marveled at the number of hipsters playing on their Macs and investment bankers debating the size of their Christmas bonuses while imbibing $30 glasses of scotch. It was a great scene that's definitely worth experiencing.

Later that night on our stroll back to home base, we passed a crowd of at least 30 people gathered on the sidewalk outside Caracas Arepa Bar. We decided that it must be worth waiting for, so we put our name on the list and walked around the corner for a few beers and glasses of wine to help pass the 45 minute wait. We returned just in time to hear our name called and were shoehorned into the table immediately next to the front window in the dining room, which is more tightly quartered than a submarine. We each ordered an arepa - mine stuffed with thick disks of spicy chorizo and her's filled with roasted pork shoulder. What stood out the most was the sublime texture of the Venezuelan corn cakes - somewhere between a pupusa and a corn muffin. Excellent.

Following dinner we stumbled in to the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop for the most decadent ice cream cone I have ever tasted. Behold the Salty Pimp: vanilla soft serve stuffed and streaked on the sides with dulce de leche, dipped in chocolate, and sprinkled with sea salt. Unreal.

Shrimp and pork buns from Momofuku Noodle Bar.

We slept in on Saturday morning and felt even more guilty for squandering our time after the Parisian Princess sent a text message saying that she had just finished her 8 mile run through Central Park and would be available to meet us for lunch after a quick shower. We headed out on foot through the Village toward Washington Square to see if we could score a walk-in table at Babbo. Dining at Mario Batali and Joe Bastianich's flagship restaurant had become a mission for us ever since our attempts at a reservation were thwarted by Hurricane Sandy beating down on Manhattan exactly one month before our trip, which happened to be the precise time when Babbo opens its reservation book. By the time that they started answering the phones again after the storm, our only option was an 11:15 p.m. reservation. We decided to gamble on a lunch walk-in instead.

As we strolled down 5th Avenue, TFS reminisced about the Carnival du Vin Patron Party a few years back when she and Rene's better half caught Mario's eye and then spent a significant portion of the evening trying to force feed him red wine (which he defended against by proclaiming that that he only drinks white wine). As we chuckled at the stroll down memory lane, all of a sudden a familiar looking rotund gentlemen with a red pony tail exited an apartment building and crossed our path. Given the 38° temperature, it seemed odd that he chose shorts and crocs as the proper wardrobe for riding his vespa, which he promptly cranked up and then drove off on with his son clinging to his waist. Very strange.

A few minutes later we arrived at Babbo and were told that it would be no problem to seat our party of 3 for lunch. We waited for the Parisian Princess over pre-lunch cocktails and admired the handsome first floor dining room while a Coltrane track played in the background. Armed with the knowledge that neither TFS nor PP would be interested in a tasting menu, my order had already been pre-determined. To start a towering pile of arugula dressed with shaved parm and balsamic and served with a half dozen sweet morsels of roasted butternut squash. I ask myself, "How can something so simple be so good?" TFS had the same questions after she polished off her plate of thinly sliced prosciutto and fresh figs.

She followed with gnocchi al telefono, which I have to say was the best combination of pasta, tomato, and cheese that I had ever tasted. PP's grilled octopus transported me back to a tiny tapas bar in San Sebastian where I first learned to appreciate how tender this sea creature could be if cooked properly. As appealing as those few bites were, my attention remained tightly focused on the beef cheek ravioli, a dish which defies science when you consider how its possible to pack such a rich flavor inside a tiny pasta pouch.

Over the olive oil cake for dessert, we discussed the best plan of attack to score a dinner reservation for our return trip in the spring.

After lunch we decided that the best way to revive our hunger was a long walk to the Meatpacking District. We checked out the High Line, but Terroir was closed and no one could be seen having sex in front of the windows at the Standard, so it was kind of a bust. Then we headed over to Eataly to make sure that we maximized our quota of Mario for the trip. The scene can only be described as pandemonium. Picture the concourses at the Superdome during halftime, except that everyone is gorging themselves on pizza, pasta and wine instead of nachos, hot dogs, and beer. Things were a little more relaxed at Corkbuzz, where we met a few friends for a drink. Then pre-theatre fondue and half-priced bottles of Burgundy at the Bourgeois Pig.

According to TFS, an evening at the theatre is an absolute requirement for any visit to NYC. For this trip, she convinced me that spending 5x more on tickets to The Book of Mormon would be worth it. She was right. The show was hilarious. Unless, of course, any of you readers is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, in which case the show is extremely offensive and irreverent. Actually, those adjectives apply no matter what your religion or lack thereof.

I had pizza on the brain after the show, so we hailed a cab and headed to Motorino for an excellent Neopolitan pie topped with spicy soppresatta, chili flakes, and slivers of garlic. PP met up with us for the walk home, which happened to take us right in front of Momofuku Noodle Bar. This was obviously a sign sent down from above by Joseph Smith and/or Brigham Young, so how could we resist?

I'll be honest, both the ramen and the nugget potatoes were underwhelming, which was a surprise. But the steamed flour buns were out of this world good, and that goes for both the pork belly and the fried shrimp cake. It took every ounce of will power in my body to stop myself from attempting to pilfer a thigh from the fried chicken dinner delivered to the table next to us. Unfortunately, that dish must be ordered in advance. I may or may not have told TFS that I would pay for that table's entire meal if they gave me a southern style leg and a Korean style thigh, which prompted her to immediately ask for the check. Next time.

Sunday was a blur. A satisfactory brunch at Burger & Barrel. A trip to Bloomingdale's a/k/a the ninth circle of hell. More walking. Dinner at Hasaki because TFS wanted sushi and it was one of the few places that was open. A cab ride to the airport and a flight home.

I am tired just writing about it. But I am also now very hungry....

Feed Your Aura

The appetizer platter at Fatoush. Photo by renee b. photography.

Whenever I overhear someone discussing their cosmic energy, I am reminded of an anecdote from my sister's apartment search when she first moved to NYC. The Parisian Princess must have answered every Craigslist ad for roommates wanted, and she was introduced to quite a cross section of Manhattan crazies. But her most memorable prospect was a middle-aged, sari-clad Caucasian woman in Greenwich Village. After a five minute meeting and quick tour of the apartment, she told the Parisian Princess: "I really dig your aura. When can you move in?"

On my first visit to the New Orleans Healing Center, I half expected to see that same woman (or her local equivalent) offering discount directions to destiny or complimentary karmic cleansings. Instead, I found some of the best Middle Eastern food in the city and received renewed faith in my belief that the gyro can be something much more delicious than just a cheap lunch.

In the August issue of OffBeat Magazine, we review Fatoush, an organic restaurant which could easily convince a carnivore of the virtues of vegetarianism, if it were not for the fact that the kitchen does marvelous things with lamb. This is not your standard hummus joint - although the hummus is quite good, as is the atypical baba ghanoush (with a curious addition of diced tomato) and the white bean salad known as piyaz. Naturally raised, organic meats and breads baked in house are just a few of the other luxuries which come standard at Fatoush. Find out more in our Dining Out column.

Fatoush - Birdie
2372 St. Claude, Suite 130
(504) 371-5074

Porktastic

A few months ago, the Parisian Princess forwarded me this article on the 35 best pork dishes in New York. Seeing as the Gulf South's premier porkapalooza will be held this Saturday, I thought that today would be the best day as ever to take stock of some of my favorite pork dishes served in New Orleans restaurants.

Often times we incorrectly connote "best" with "over the top."  Restaurant A's well executed braised pork cheeks can be just as satisfying as Restaurant B's pork tenderloin stuffed with head cheese and topped with cracklins. Bigger is not always necessarily better.

Three weeks ago at Rue 127, I had a juicy double cut pork chop that made me a believer once again in the power of simplicity. Still, I can't deny that I am enamoured with a dish that features pork in multiple iterations, such as the above rice plate from Tan Dinh - pork chop, chargrilled pork, pork meatballs, and the gratuitous fried egg. (Note this dish is not on the menu and was created on the spot as a necessary form of hangover relief.) And the first time we met Chef Mark Falgoust from Grand Isle, he blew us away with his PorkBomb.com, a sampler of so many different cuts of pork that the only thing missing was the oink.

Perhaps I'm just a sucker for overindulgence?  The jury is still out on that one.  But in the mean time, if you ever sit down for lunch at Herbsaint and the waiter tells you about the off the menu special sandwich of a paneed pork cutlet topped shaved ham, please order it without hesitation.

What are your favorite pork dishes around town?

The Bistro at Maison de Ville

Reading and listening to Rene's Parisian adventures conjured up memories of my own family trip to Paris in Christmas 2006. One of the highlights of that trip was our Christmas day meal. After attending noon Mass at Notre Dame, we crossed the Seine onto Île Saint-Louis and happened upon a quaint restaurant whose name I cannot recall. I remember our waiter was a soft-spoken portly fellow who showed incredible patience with my Dad attempting to substitute vegetables instead of potatoes with his entree. I remember the interior had vaulted ceilings, dark woods, and stained glass. I remember that I had house-cured salmon to start and an excellent roasted chicken for my main dish.

But most of all, I remember how incredibly small the kitchen was. The two women occupying that space had barely enough room to stand side-by-side, and their movements seemed to be choreographed into a well timed complementary dance. If one zigged, the other had no choice but to zag.

I had never seen a kitchen of such size until a few years later when I walked into The Bistro at Maison de Ville for the first time. The galley style kitchen is actually one of several attributes which evoke memories of meals in a bistro in the Marais in Paris or a classical bouchon in Lyon. The small, narrow, low-ceilinged dining room is another. Nestled next door to (of all places) the renovated Tropical Isle, ducking into this rather unassuming door on Toulouse transports me to a warm, comforting place where the moment is defined by the food, your friends at the table, and nothing else.

"The Bistro", as it is affectionately known, is well known as the launching pad for Susan Spicer. For many years maître d’ ran Patrick Van Hoorebeek, the King of Cork, ran the dining room. Chef Greg Picolo has been at the helm (and aft) of the kitchen for quite a while now, and the menu reflects his affinity for classical French fare with Creole influences.

Lunch and dinner at The Bistro are almost two completely different animals, with the mid-day menu not nearly as inspiring as its evening counterpart. Lunch at The Bistro should always begin with Chef Greg's pate provencal, whose consistency The Folk Singer describes as "chocolate butter." Pate is good in and of itself, but as you can see above, pate topped with seared foie gras is so much f*cking better. Your best choice for a main course at lunch is the salad of house smoked salmon rillette (which is not really a rillette), frisee, poached eggs, toffika caviar, and creamy caper dressing. This is just an outstanding dish, with the richness of the egg yolk, saltiness from the capers, and crackly pops of the caviar. Moules frites, croque monsieur, a burger, and fried chicken round out the rest of the lunch entrees, all solid overall but not star worthy.

For some reason the pate is not offered on the dinner menu, but often a complimentary ramekin of olive tapenade will found its way to your table. At night, the aforementioned salmon rillette salad is offered with one poached egg as a starter course. Dinner at The Bistro should include duck, and Chef Greg prepares le canard in a number of ways. The deconstructed cassoulet (pictured) is quite the standout, with confit of leg and thigh, garlic sausage, wild rice, and cannellini beans. However, the current duck offering probably was the best duck dish I have ever tasted: Roasted breast of duck, seared foie gras, and grilled peaches. The juicy duck breast was excellent all by its lonesome, but the combination of the breast with the rich foie gras and the sweetness of the grilled peach was a match made in heaven. Even the accompanying creamy risotto had tiny nibbles of duck confit dispersed throughout.

The menu always offers a daily appetizer and entree special, and I have had excellent luck with these in the past. A huge filet of drum is pan sauteed and served with a wonderfully acidic and spicy beure blanc spiked with caviar and wasabi. There is, of course, a filet whose tenderness is beyond reproach, but at $39 for 8oz. I would recommend looking elsewhere. Same goes for the paneed pork tenderloin "Ya Mom and Dem."

I have only made it to the dessert course at The Bistro on two occasions. I can't recall much about the praline torte other than I had written down that it was "awesome." I will never forget the chocolate sundae though - a simple, fantastic dessert with homemade whipped cream and rich chocolate.
 
Every time I walk into The Bistro and sit down, my first reaction is always "There is just something about this place that I love."  Really, the question should be: What's not to love?
 
The Bistro at Maison de Ville - Birdie/Eagle
 
733 Rue Toulouse
528-9206
Lunch Thur, Fri, Mon
Dinner Thur - Mon

"I've Never Met a Cheese that I Didn't Like"

The Parisian Princess uttered those words when presented with a 7 course cheese tasting at Fromagerie 31 on Rue de Seine in La Ville-Lumière. I, on the other hand, have in fact crossed paths with a cheese or two which I could live without, but those are few and far between. Often there is no better meatless meal than a hunk of cheese, a plate of olives, and a loaf of crusty bread. And when I need to satisfy my fromage fix, there is only one place I go: St. James Cheese Company.

If I had to choose my profession based solely on what I would eat for lunch, then I would be a ploughman. The toil would be worth this mid-day meal of cheese (cheddar, stilton, and goat), pate, and bread. Throw a little chutney in there plus a green salad and bread to round it out, and you have one of my favorite no frills meals.

But if you are more of a sandwich guy or gal, St. James has you covered as well. Here we have the "Mozzarella" with salami and pesto on grilled ciabatta. At St. James there is no question which ingredient is the star of each sandwich, which is why you order the "Beecher's Cheddar" or "Smokey Blue" as opposed to the "Turkey" or "Roast Beef."

'

And one final bit of news: After an August hiatus, St. James is once again open for Sunday brunch.

'

St. James Cheese Co. - Eagle

Guest Blogger: The Parisian Princess

Ladies, Gentlemen, and The Pope. This is our last entree in the 2009 BOGBTCPIBTTBESC. Peter has been furiously taking the La. Bar Exam this week, and except for an "episode" wherein he misplaced his lucky skinny jeans, he is surviving and likely will return to sanity soon. For our final entree, The Parisian Princess reviews a Fat City Gem.

Kanno

For over two years, I have heard my friend, who I will call ESPNola, rant and rave about the best sushi in New Orleans. Naturally, my thoughts were this place must be Uptown or in Midcity. But alas, I was mistaken. Not only was this “best sushi restaurant” located in Metairie, but it was also close to a series of convenience stores, dry cleaners, and strip clubs. It wasn’t exactly your ideal location for a good meal.

Nevertheless I was intrigued and decided to take my friend up on his invitation for dinner. The restaurant was small with a few guests scattered around two tables and the bar. Right off the bat, I noticed the chef, affectionately known as Elvis, who was chatting with customers and immediately asked ESPNola where his Mother was for the evening. One thing was clear: this place was for locals.

So, I sat down and looked at the specials. Names like the South Beach Roll and Elvis Roll peaked my interest. But in the end I decided to play it safe and order a special Lobster Roll and an old faithful, the Dragon Roll. The Lobster Roll came out first and immediately I was hooked. It was brimming with huge chunk of lobster resting on a roll of snowcrab and avocado. To top it off, it was drenched in eel sauce and a succulent cream sauce also known as “fantasy sauce”. I woofed down each grain of rice and speckle of sauce on the plate wishing the “fantasy” would never end.
My next order, the Dragon roll was good but pretty standard. Everything was “on point”: the eel sauce was sweet, the avocado was creamy, and the crab was firm.
However, it paled in comparison to ESPNola’s Godzilla Roll, pieces of tempura shrimp, snowcrab, and spicy tuna wrapped in rice paper with a heavy dose of fantasy sauce and a sprinkling of rice flakes. After only one bite, I knew that I would have to thank myself for my morning run and order another half order of Godzilla rolls.
To round out the evening, the waiter came by with pieces of chocolate that were sweet and creamy. It was the perfect ending to a great meal.
So the question remains, Is Kanno really the best sushi in New Orleans? The debate is still up in my book. But I wouldn’t mind crossing by signs for g-string divas and cheap beers again to eat some more of that fantasy sauce.

Guest Blogger: The Parisian Princess

Competition is getting fierce! After 3 weeks, Helvetia Homemaker is ahead. This week another entree from the Parisian Princess. As always, these are actual submissions by real people, and not just pen names Peter and Rene use occasionally. Send in yours today, win lunch.

Traveler’s Journey: A Tale of Another City

New York City, like New Orleans, is a food lover’s paradise. Nowhere else in the world with the exception of the tacky Epcot in Disney World can you experience so many cultures in one place. If you want some Peking duck, go to Chinatown. If you are craving a cannoli, head down to Little Italy. Are you in the mood for some chicken curry? Then take a trip to Murray aka “Curry” Hill. From pizza to pierogies, New York has got it all.

For me, the best always comes back to one place: France. Call me a snob, an elitist, a traitor, but in the world of cuisine, no one does it better than the French. As I write this, I envision many of you rolling your eyes and sighing in horror thinking that I am about to deliver a monologue on why French food is supreme. Chances are you probably think that I am going to mention savory dishes like foie gras wrapped in a puff pastry and topped with a delicate cream sauce. But I am not here to elaborate or honor famous French chefs. I am here to talk about food, and by "food" I mean meat: man’s best friend.

As any traveler will tell you, the heart of the French bistro lies in one dish: Steak Frites. To recreate this dish anywhere outside of Paris or its neighboring cities is a daunting task for any chef. But luckily some are up for the challenge. So I decided to press my luck and search for this dish in New York City. In the Big Apple, perhaps no one knows more about the art of steak frites than the culinary bad-ass, Anthony Bourdain.

On a recent trip to the legendary restaurant Les Halles, I had the pleasure of experiencing classic French fare. Bourdain spent years working at Les Halles before moving on to the bright lights of food writing, television production, and generally becoming the envy of foodies around the world.

To mix it up, I ordered the N.Y. strip with a side of béarnaise and a generous portion of crispy golden fries. The meat was tender and juicy, and when paired with the rich and creamy sauce, this protein re-affirmed the reason why I could never be a vegetarian. The french fries were salty with a sweet aftertaste of butter, which my best friend and fellow foodie, Fifi Frank, assured me was from frying the potatoes in duck fat. This meal may have temporarily spiked my cholesterol levels, but it was worth the consequences.

To top off the evening, I chose a warm chocolate and banana tart with a generous helping of whipped cream. It was the perfect rich and decadent dessert to end my dining experience. I left the restaurant pleasantly full and satisfied. My faith in the ability of American chefs to recreate French classics was solidified. Thank you, Bourdain, the crew at Les Halles, and God Bless America!

Guest Blogger: The Parisian Princess

Blogger's Note - The Parisian Princess, a/k/a Peter's sister, is a world renown gastronome, having lived in Paris for a year and traveled extensively throughout Europe. In this guest blog appearance, she recounts a tale from her latest jump across the pond. Don't hate the player, hate the game. To get your article up for consideration, send via email to blackenedout.

On a recent trip to Germany for my graduate school survey of international art markets,* I decided to do some gastronomy research. Being a natural FBA, aka foodie by association, due to my shared genetics with the culinary co-master of Blackened Out, Peter, I sought the expertise of a higher power. In this case that power was no other than the man himself, Anthony Bourdain.

In his travel series "No Reservations," Bourdain circles the globe in search of food, culture, and adventure. In order to pick the best of Berlin, I consulted Bourdain's homepage and printed out his culinary "to do" list. I selected one restaurant in particular, Konnopke's, which Tony visited to enjoy the German speciality, currywurst. Currywurst is a regional dish of Berlin originating from the 1930s that consists of chopped sausage topped with ketchup and curry powder and served with a side of fries. It can be found almost anywhere in the city, but according to Bourdain, Konnopke's is the original and best currywurst spot in the city.

The scene outside Konnopke's

So on a nice, sunny day in Berlin, I set out in search of currywurst. What seemed like a short pleasant trip turned into a meandering journey through the broken, back streets of the city. After getting lost several times and walking for over an hour, I finally arrived at my location. To my horror and dismay, Konnopke's, the temple of currywurst was closed for a local holiday. Tired, hungry, and extremely agitated, I made the decision to forget Bourdain and his closed "elitist" currywurst stand for the next best thing. I located another little restaurant next to Konnopke's that was open and offered currywurst on the menu. Sure, I was settling for second tier grub, but what harm could there be? The currywurst looked okay and other people were eating it. So I took the plunge and ordered the currywurst with fries and side of ketchup and headed for the nearest subway.
The food looked good and it tasted fine. But later, I would realize just how wrong my rash decision was. Within four hours, my stomach felt like it was being twisted into a German pretzel. The whole experience culminated in World War III of food poisoning in which I had to get up every 20 minutes to run to the bathroom. I spent 20 hours in Berlin laying in bed, sick as a dog and missed a whole day of traveling. All because I thought I could cheat the system. So lesson learned: Do as Bourdain does and don't accept culinary imitations. The best is there for a reason, all others need not apply. Thanks to my German experience, I will never look at sausage the same way again. Well, except for maybe some boudin when I go back home. I am from New Orleans after all, aren't I???

-The Parisian Princess-

* Editor's note: International Art's Market's Studies? Where the hell was this booth at Career Day? This doesn't even sound real.

And I'm Hungry Like the Woooooooolfe

This past Saturday was White Linen Night in the Warehouse District, which I attended with The Folk Singer, the Legal Eagles, and the recently returned Parisian Princess who is making a brief stop in NOLA before moving to NYC for graduate school at Sotheby's (rough life, huh?). I usually enjoy walking through galleries (especially with a mojito in hand) even though I really am not sure what I am looking at or why I like it, but normally the galleries are filled with air condition. As most of you know, it is always unbearably hot and humid on White Linen Night, and this year was no different. But we still had a great time, the highlights of which were the sketches from the original Edwin Edwards trial and Mrs. Legal Eagle being asked to participate in a photo spread for the Times Picayune.

Then we decided to eat dinner at Wolfe's in the Warehouse, and the rest was gastronomical bliss. No one ever talks about this place. Why? Because they don't have a website? Because it is hidden away on Fulton Street? Because it's a hotel restaurant? Probably all of the above. I had never eaten there before, and you probably have not either. But after my meal I am sad to say that I have waited this long to go.

The space is huge (probably 150 seats), and the tables are spread out - which are two great characteristics if the restaurant is crowded but probably a deterrence to prospective diners on slower nights. One of the unique touches is the inclusion of a few recessed tables which can be curtained off for an intimate dining experience. The service was well polished, especially our waiter Roy who was the consummate professional.

I must confess that The Pope is somewhat a celebrity at Wolfe's, so we had a few special treats throughout the meal. First was an amuse bouche of bruschetta with cherry tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. Unfortunately there were only two servings left, so TFS and PP got the nod. (Why them and not me? I don't know. Something to do with chivalry, but I was so pissed that I did not get my own that I stopped listening to whatever Roy was saying.) TFS gave me a bite of hers though out of pity, and I must say that it was deliciously salty - just how I like it.

Next we had the regular amuse of truffled potato chips with a potato leek cream for dipping. Wow. The chips were light and crisp and topped with a bit of shaved white truffle, but the cream was so good that it made an encore appearance during the main course.


We decided to share a first course, but then another starter unexpectedly arrived courtesy of La Papa: seared foie gras on top of duck sausage. Wow. The sausage was a course grind, formed into a patty, and then breaded and fried. The smooth texture of the foie gras contrasted well with the crunchy exterior of the sausage. I could go on, but a picture is worth a thousand words. Our intended appetizer was beef satay, but honestly, I was too involved with the foie gras to remember much about that dish.


For the salad course, the ladies had the petit chopped salad - mixed greens, tomato, and avocado topped with crabmeat. This dish is not currently on the menu, but La Papa gave us the inside tip. However, I was the hands down winner with the duck confit salad - warm, shredded confit of duck and Maytag blue cheese served atop bitter greens which were drizzled with a black cherry demi and sprinkled with candied pecans. I made the mistake of offering PP a taste ... she never switched back with me.

As if that wasn't enough, we still had our main courses to come. TFS had the filet, PP had the scallops, and I had a ribeye which appeared to be 28oz yet it was not bone-in. The filet was cooked perfectly, but the ribeye was had been undercooked from the requested temperature of medium rare. Nothing a few more seconds on the grill could not fix, and I would much rather have my steak under as opposed to overcooked. Oh yeah, and we requested that potato leek cream as a sauce.

Altogether, the meal was fantastic. My only regret was that we were too full for dessert, but we had the next day's Louisiana Food Expo on our minds ....

Wolfe's in the Warehouse - Birdie.

* Coincidentally, shortly after my meal at Wolfe's I learned that Chef Tom Wolfe's restaurant Peristyle would be closing its doors this weekend. Another classic French restaurant is lost, but I hope the squab and white chocolate butter bars find their way onto the menu at Wolfe's

A Charleston Affair

I am fortunate enough to travel to Charleston this weekend for my sister's graduation from the city's eponymous college. Everyone who has ever spent considerable time here has always told me that you fall in love with the city from the moment that you first walk down King Street, and I must say that the city does possess a unique charm not unlike The Big Easy. Some even go as far to boast that present-day Charleston is what New Orleans could be post-Katrina, but I wouldn't go that far just yet. NOLA has a lot more going for it than this small coastal town, but that is another question for another blog entry...

The first thing that I told my sister (aka "The Parisian Princess" heretoafter referred to as "PP") after picking us up from the airport yesterday was this: "Take us straight to Jestine's. Do not stop at the house. I need some fried chicken livers in my life." So off we went.

Our lunch consisted of classic home cooking. We started with fried corn fritters - tennis ball sized cakes of deep fried white corn meal studded with whole white corn kernels and a heavy dash of black pepper, topped with a sweet and sour relish of diced peppers. For my meal I had the aforementioned fried chicken livers which were served with grilled onions and cup of beef gravy on the side. The livers were sinfully rich, but dipping them in a puddle of Lillie's Low Country Loco Hot Sauce helped cut the richness of the livers with some vinegar and heat. For my sides, I went with mac & cheese and stewed collard greens (kicked up with hot pepper sauce). My Dad had the pecan crusted whiting (a local fish), but this tasted like a glorified fish stick to me. Dessert consisted of pecan pie (with finely chopped nuts as opposed to the half or whole nuts which most of us are used to) and coca cola cake - which if you have never had this caffeinated/cocoa/marshmallow madness of goodness, you just ain't livin'. I wish that we would have ordered their famous fried chicken, but my uncle (who orders like me but has the bankroll to do it consistently everytime he dines out) had eaten it the night before and assured me that it was some of the best he has ever had. So I took his word for it.

For dinner we joined PP's roommate and her mother (who, on a sidenote, was the second female commercial pilot in the US) at The Boathouse on East Bay. This was a cool spot that sported both a contemporary seafood menu and a sushi bar. Lots of wood on the interior and a general sailing motif. This would be the restaurant that Legend would open.

We started off with three appetizers: fried calamari which were accented with both a red garlic chili sauce and a lemon basil aioli - the dueling sauces raised this typical passed hors d'oeurves to a whole other level; the portabello fries were not the thin cut fungi that I anticipated but instead thick strips of mushroom served with a horseradish sour cream sauce for dipping; lastly we had lobster and crab hashbrowns with dill cream - great concept but not enough seafood in the dish.

For my entree I chose golden tile, which is a native fish of Charleston - the other local fish specials of the day included mahi mahi, grouper, and cavender - no clue what that is and neither did my waiter). There were three preparation options for your fish: grilled with lemon tarragon butter, blackened with corn salsa, or (my choice) macadamia nut crusted with mango coulis. This fish was cooked to perfection, but it could have used a heavier hand with the salt before the crust was applied. For sides I ordered the smoked gouda mac and cheese and the blue cheese cole slaw. The mac and cheese was aromatic and rich with the gouda, but a tad on the dry side - a little more bechamel would have put this dish as one of the top 5 side dishes of all time.

Othe dishes on the table included crab cakes, blackened mahi mahi, and a sirloin - all prepared well. Everyone said that they were too full for dessert, but after perusing the menu I decided that we just had to order the "549er" to go. This thing was RIDICULOUS - a thin layer of chocolate "cake" (actually it was denser like a brownie), then caramelized bananas, peanut butter mousse, and covered with dark chocolate ganache. So so rich, yet not too sweet.

I will be here till Monday, and we already have reservations at several other of the more popular eateries in the city. My only regret so far is that I waited till PP's graduation to visit here for the first time.